Shema

When people talk to me of “God,” I get squint-eye. I do. Inside my mind, I go for my sword and thrash the air with it, barking cusses like a pirate. Otherwise I’m all round-eyed innocence. “What precisely is it you’re talking about when you say that word?”

I generally know what the speaker means by it, but I want them to say it out loud.

As nothing is my witness.

I am sometimes amazed at the depth of feeling manifested in the expansive rhetoric of parboiled ideas.

What a waste.

All that narrow and shallow yap.
All that puffy righteousness.
All those milky retinas.
Nada, nada, nada, y nada otra vez.
The alchemy of yearning into poison.

But—the Shema.

The Shema is wine.

We know it’s an interrogative because we answer.
1. Frothy spit
2. Fetal crunch.
3. Fleeing pelvis
4. Gleam and greedy nod
5. Arms, eyes, and mouth open.

You might wish to pick from among these. Idiot.
They aren’t methods;
They’re lenses.